


paso doble

by cafecliche



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Episode 3 AU, M/M, Magical Realism, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 15:32:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17327651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafecliche/pseuds/cafecliche
Summary: "Long before skating, or even ballet, Yuuri would hear about it at festivals, in the boiling humidity of Hasetsu summers dancing the Bon Odori in the streets. He remembered years where Mari would take him home alone, while their parents comforted lingering, distraught dancers. Sometimes, Mari had explained, they were crying because they’d seen lost loved ones. Some cried because they didn’t see who they’d hoped, but a stranger. And some cried because they hadn’t seen anyone at all.Because it’s not just the steps. The dancers need, even for a second, to feel the exact same thing."(Or: days before Hot Springs on Ice, Yuuri receives a visitor from another time.)





	paso doble

**Author's Note:**

> SORRY FOR THE LONG ABSENCE, CHICKADEES. I've been working on a few things, this included, and I'm super excited to be able to share it with you now. This was written for the YOI Fantasy Zine, with beautiful art by Taiga (odinbytiye on Tumblr - if the art is posted publicly, I'll link it here!)
> 
> Anyway - here's my magical realism remix of Episode 3. Thank you to the Fantasy Zine team for giving me the chance to dip into something different, and I hope you all enjoy it!

The half-lit fluorescent lights of Ice Castle Hasetsu flicker in a steady rhythm, like the rink itself is breathing. Yuuri breathes with it - in, two, three, out, four, five. He gets it, after a while. And when he blinks, he sees that they’ve already stopped.  
  


He lets the rest of the air out in a long, controlled exhale, one that pushes his back flat against the ice. The feeling has started to turn from a bracing but grounding shock to a bone-deep chill, but it’s not until Yuuri hears whimpering and rustling from the bleachers that he climbs off the ice and onto his skates.  
  


“Did that scare you?” Yuuri croons, drifting across the ice to the barrier. Makkachin is anxiously dancing on her back legs, as if trying to gauge whether she could vault into the rink, and she doesn’t settle until she pushes her nose into one of Yuuri’s outstretched hands. He buries his quivering fingers into her curls and scratches until they shake themselves still. “I’m sorry.”  
  


Makkachin had been Victor’s condition for this late night practice. _What happens if you hit your head?_ Victor had insisted. _Makkachin’s trained to call emergency services, you know_.   
  


“... somehow I can believe that,” Yuuri mutters to himself, scratching her head. But he suspects Victor just knows, fully well, that Yuuri’s not going to do anything stupid with her there.

 

( _You could stay in?_ Victor had also said, handing Yuuri her leash by the entryway. _I’m watching this TV drama. I thought you might explain it to me_.

 

Yuuri doesn’t get Victor sometimes. Victor asked him to prove that he wanted this. Here he is, proving it. And yet when Yuuri had offered to get Mari to keep him company, Victor looked almost - disappointed.)

 

Makkachin settles back into her makeshift bed with a snuffle, satisfied that there’s nothing to worry about for now. And once Yuuri is sure she’s dozed off again, he pushes off the wall, drifts back to center ice, and takes one grounding breath. He starts slow and builds, gathering speed with every pass, until his face stings and tears pool in the corner of his eyes. He sails backwards. Sets up the jump. And knows from the second he leaves the ice that he’s crooked.

 

It’s not the worst fall he’s ever had. But it’s hard enough, loud enough, that it takes him a full minute to catch his breath.

 

At the end of next week, Yuuri is meant to skate a program that will convince Victor Nikiforov to coach him.

 

Yuuri is out of his depth.

 

He’s quicker to scramble to his feet this time, but Makkachin hasn’t stirred. Maybe the crash wasn’t as loud as it felt. Or maybe the sound is getting so familiar to her at this point it doesn’t register anymore.

 

( _Stop that_ , his internal Phichit chides. Even imaginary Phichit won’t let him get away with anything.)

 

It’s not just Makkachin, though. Everything feels a little more still than it did before. The steady hum of the coolants have gone quiet. The lights have flickered off again, leaving little evenly-spaced pools of moonlight across the ice. The only thing Yuuri can hear is his own breathing - and when that slows, nothing.

 

It has to be past 3:00am by now. Yuuri’s not too stubborn to recognize that he’s not going to accomplish anything tonight. But he readjusts his posture and shakes his shoulders loose, ignoring the twinge as he cocks his hip.

 

He doesn’t need to run steps. Victor had him running steps all afternoon. But he’s at least going to finish with something he can do.

 

His first attempt at a smirk comes out as a dubious grimace, and he surprises himself with a fit of laughter that makes him feel looser, lighter. Not exactly erotic. But better than nothing.

 

He starts from the top and slides into the tempo, keeps rhythm with his fingers until he no longer needs to, until it’s in his head. Then he plays with it, takes it faster. There’s no one to show off for, but that’s never stopped him before.

 

_I could keep going_ , he thinks, treacherously. But reluctantly, he stops short of the second half, letting his spread eagle slow into a loose spin. And little by little, his momentum spins itself out.

 

Still not seductive. He doesn’t need to look at himself to know that much. But probably the best run he’s had yet.

 

And probably not enough.

 

But Yuuri doesn’t have long to sit with that thought. Someone sails past him, clipping the edge of a patch of light. Yuuri catches a flash of blue shirt, silver hair, before they glide straight into the shadows.

 

It’s the kind of thing that could easily be a trick of Yuuri’s blurred, sleep-deprived vision. Except when he turns to follow the motion, Victor Nikiforov is _still there_.

 

And at the same time, he’s most definitely not. He’s - bright, somehow, or maybe it’s more like he’s standing somewhere completely different than the half-dark Ice Castle, somewhere with color and light. When he slows to a stop, his back to Yuuri, he makes no sound, leaves the ice untouched. And he doesn’t react to Yuuri’s startled rush of breath.

 

For a long moment, they stand there: Victor looking into space, Yuuri looking at Victor. So this part, at least, is normal.

 

Victor’s shoulders perk up, as if suddenly aware of someone watching, and Yuuri holds stock still, waiting, ready. But when Victor’s head turns, it turns to the side, like he’s heard something far out of Yuuri’s reach. His hair brushes back, and his stare is visible for a moment. Expectant. Almost bored.

 

And then he’s gone.

 

***

 

“How do you do that, Katsudon?” Yuri Plisetsky drawls.

 

Yuuri turns back to ask, but there’s no need - he can see now that Yuri’s looking at the bruise by the small of his back. Yuuri’s not particularly sure where that one came from, either. Usually he’s an anthropologist of bruises, able to chart a failed practice from start to disastrous end. But, unsurprisingly, last night is a bit of a blur. Before a certain point.

 

“Talent,” Yuuri says, absently rubbing ointment into the mess of blue and purple that is now his hip.

 

Yuri snorts. Maybe it’s Yuuri’s imagination, but it sounds more amused than derisive.

 

“May I?”

 

Victor’s standing by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot. It’s funny. Yuuri’s been watching him for half his life now. They’ve shared conference rooms, rinks, banquet halls. But Yuuri never would have guessed he was a fidgeter. He always seemed so still, off the ice. Just as still as he’d been last night.

 

“Ah?” says Yuuri, vaguely remembering that Victor asked a question.

 

“Your back,” Victor says, gesturing. “You’re not going to be able to reach.”

 

“Oh.” Yuuri pushes the ointment across the tatami and turns away. Ostensibly to offer his back, but more to preserve his dignity if he bursts some kind of vein. “Please.”

 

Victor kneels beside him and brushes his back with a careful finger, as if mapping the task at hand. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

 

_It’s just a bruise_ , Yuuri almost says. But he lets Victor go slow, inspect the damage. It gives him time to think about the night before.

 

It’s not an uncommon phenomenon, is the thing. It happens all the time. Maybe it’s more unusual that it hasn’t happened to Yuuri before. Steps are his life, after all. And steps are always what starts it.

 

That’s the theory, anyway. Two people, dancing the same steps, finding one another through a pocket of time. Maybe they’re connected, maybe they’re strangers. Maybe they share an era, maybe they’re separated by decades, centuries, continents. It’s personal, sometimes, But not always. All they need is the dance.

 

Long before skating, or even ballet, Yuuri would hear about it at festivals, in the boiling humidity of Hasetsu summers dancing the Bon Odori in the streets. He remembered years where Mari would take him home alone, while their parents comforted lingering, distraught dancers. Sometimes, Mari had explained, they were crying because they’d seen lost loved ones. Some cried because they didn’t see who they’d hoped, but a stranger. And some cried because they hadn’t seen anyone at all.

 

Because it’s not just the steps. The dancers need, even for a second, to feel the exact same thing.

 

And Yuuri might be wrong. But he remembers the last thing he thought before it happened: _It’s probably not enough_.

 

“Yuuri?” Victor says, peering over his shoulder to look him in the eye. “Does that hurt?”

 

Yuuri turns just enough to look back. Yesterday he might have thought, if only half-seriously, that those words had never crossed Victor’s mind. But he meets Victor’s stare. Catches the uncertainty. And wonders.

 

“No,” Yuuri says. “Not at all.”

 

***

 

It’s not a stretch for Yuuri to dedicate himself to the study of Victor Nikiforov. Only the medium has changed. Over the next few nights, Yuuri becomes a scholar of quick glimpses, of flickers in the corner of his eye. He catalogues the Victors in their motions, in their expressions, from the dubious line of his mouth to the uncertain curve of his arm.

 

Sometimes he watches the empty air like he’s searching for something. Yuuri, both feet planted frustratingly in the present, can’t see his surroundings, or whether anyone’s watching where he is. But if there’s anything, anyone there, Victor barely acknowledges it.

 

The clothes change a few times. The light on his face changes even more. Sometimes the steps are quick, sometimes they chart their way slowly, deliberately, across the ice. But they’re always the same.

 

Victor is choreographing Eros.

 

Tonight, miles and months away, Victor is in the early stages of the piece Yuuri is meant to perform in two days. But it’s not hard to see the emotion tying them together tonight. For the first time all week, the vision of Victor looks openly frustrated.

 

He must be alone, then. The light around him looks artificial, like the same late-night fluorescents shining down on Ice Castle. And Yuuri can’t know this for sure, but he’s started to think Victor doesn’t make that face where people can see.

 

So naturally, Yuuri can’t help but stare.

 

He drifts into a slow, looping pass around the fixed point that is Victor, whose lower lip has started to disappear between his teeth. His eyes narrow at the wall - at Ice Castle’s wall, at least - and he drums out a rhythm on his thighs, quick as a rabbit’s heartbeat. It’s not hard to guess the music going through his head.

 

Yuuri, by second nature, drums it too. Victor’s a little off the tempo at first, a little too fast. But he slows, and he matches Yuuri.

 

Victor moves into the steps, not with the Casanova confidence of their practice sessions. Deliberate, thoughtful, searching them out. And then he taps out one last beat, and he stops.

 

Yuuri bites back a smile. So even Victor gets stuck.

 

He folds into Victor’s stance, his shoulders back, his fingers a metronome. And he finishes out the sequence into the transition.

 

That tight, frustrated look is gone from Victor’s face when Yuuri swings back around. His eyes have gone wide, his mouth open, and he’s no longer looking at nothing. He’s looking right at Yuuri.

 

Victor starts to mouth a word. But he’s gone before it’s done.

 

***

 

“ _Yuu_ ri.”

 

Yuuri blinks across the table, long and slow. Victor’s talking. The outline of Victor is talking. Yuuri reaches up to adjust his glasses, and swipes at his own face instead. No glasses. That would explain the blur.

 

“Yuuri,” Victor says again, laughing, “when did you get home?”

 

Yuuri opens his mouth, lets it hang for a moment, and closes it. He doesn’t remember. He just remembers trying to make what happened happen again.

 

“Good answer.” It’s hard to tell what face Blurry Victor is making. But his voice is soft. It goes sharp, sometimes, when he’s smiling, but maybe he’s not smiling now. “Finish your breakfast.”

 

Yuuri obediently shovels the remaining salmon and rice into his mouth, washing it down with a gulp of miso. There’s a sudden flash, in the back of his mind, of his senior debut, of being too petrified to eat a single shrimp skewer in front of Victor at his first banquet. Look at him now.

 

“Alright, up.” Victor is right in front of him now, hands hanging by Yuuri’s face. “Let’s go.”

 

Yuuri doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But Victor seems to know what he’s talking about, so that’s good enough for now. He lays his palms against Victor’s, and he lets himself be pulled to his feet and steered by the shoulders.

 

Sometime between the stairs and his bedroom, he jolts wide awake.

 

“I can’t take a rest day,” he blurts out.

 

“Mmm?” Victor says. “That’s too bad. It’s already happening.”

 

“I can’t—” _Let Yuri get the edge_ is the proper, intended end to that sentence. Yuuri clamps down on it. But even without his glasses, he can feel Victor’s questioning glance on him. “The... competition’s in three days,” he manages. “I’m not ready.”

 

“Of course you’re not,” Victor chirps. And there’s that edge. Like a safety pin in a mink coat. “But unless I’m worse at math than I thought, three minus one is two, isn’t it? You’ll take today, and you’ll still have time.”

 

“You’re not bad at math,” Yuuri mumbles before he can stop himself.

 

Victor’s hands twitch on his shoulders, but he doesn’t say anything. “... Turin,” Yuuri adds. He can feel the flush creeping up his neck. “You missed your combination. You made it up, point for point. You’re not bad at math.”

 

Victor’s still quiet as he steers Yuuri through the bedroom door. But by the time Yuuri turns around, he’s got a wide, blurry smile.

 

“Take your pants off,” Victor says.

 

“No,” Yuuri shoots back. Which is never how he imagined this conversation going.

 

Victor shrugs. “Suit yourself.” And very gently, he pushes Yuuri to the bed.

 

He is much less gentle when his entire charming Russian alien weight drops onto Yuuri’s chest and stomach.

 

“ _Victor_!” Yuuri yelps, sometime during his last wheeze of air.

 

“Those weighted blankets are all the rage, yes? Think of it like that,” Victor says. “I can’t have you practicing in this state, Yuuri. As your coach, I have to insist.”

 

“As my coach for now.”

 

Yuuri must be more tired than he thought. Because that was out loud. “Ah - I mean—”

 

Victor’s close enough now that Yuuri can make out the details of his expression. Thoughtful. Narrowed. A little like he looked charting out the steps of Eros.

 

“You really aren’t confident in this,” he says, “are you, Yuuri?”

 

It seems stupid to lie now with Victor inches from his face, feeling his heartbeat through their joined ribs. “I’m not,” Yuuri says. And then, impulsively, he asks, “Are you?”

 

Victor doesn’t miss a beat.

 

“Yes,” he says. “I am.”

 

It is, somehow, kind of comfortable like this, all of his aching joints pressed into the mattress with firm unyielding pressure. But there’s a lightness in his stomach, like it’s floating.

 

Does Victor remember seeing him all those weeks ago, that split-second on the ice? Maybe he saw something then. Or the lack of something.

 

Victor is confident. Yuuri’s not. If Victor can be so sure, all while Yuuri isn’t sure of a single thing, then Victor thinks he’s going to lose.

 

Yuuri’s not sure when he drifts off. And by the time he’s aware of it, low afternoon light is streaming through his window. The room smells like dashi and mirin, and the pitch of Yuri Plisetsky’s voice is traveling through the floorboards. And though Yuuri could have sworn, for a second, that he still felt warmth, Victor is gone.

 

***

 

It’s a foregone conclusion that Victor appears the night before the competition. But when Yuuri comes out of the final combination spin and sees him standing there, he still feels the relief down to his bones. It felt so arrogant, after all, to imagine that Victor felt as terrified as he did.

 

He smiles. And then remembers, all at once, that though this is no longer new to him, it’s new to Victor. He’s still staring, his mouth a perfect O.

 

Yuuri bites down on a laugh. He used to dream of making Victor look like that. If he’s being honest, he still does.

 

“Hi,” Yuuri says. “It’s okay.”

 

Victor tilts his head, and as many nights as Yuuri’s watched him so far, this is the first time he’s truly recognizable as the man sleeping back at his childhood home. _I can’t_ , Victor mouths, and tugs on his ear.

 

“Oh,” Yuuri says, remembering. “Oh, yes. That’s—”

 

He laughs, the heat climbing to his face. _See_ , Yuuri mouths, smiling. _Forgot again_.

 

Victor’s gaze on him is focused, intent. Like it’s not just _Yuuri_ still standing there, same as before. _Never done this_ , Victor mouths.

 

Yuuri almost apologizes, swallows it. He’s not sure he deserves to be anyone’s first, let alone Victor’s. But it’s happening, nonetheless. Neither of them can change it.

 

They hesitate a moment. Yuuri watches what must be his own expression, mirrored back through Victor. And within the same moment, they both start to laugh.

 

_Got a better idea_ , Victor mouths.

 

Yuuri smiles wider. He always does.

 

Then Victor, with those same thoughtful, searching steps, begins to skate Eros.

 

Yuuri mirrors him. It’s not a choice so much as an inevitability. It’s more difficult than it looks, dancing backwards and in skates, but Yuuri’s not a stranger to slipping from leader to follower: he and Phichit traded off regularly in their inexplicably viral Global Dance final project.

 

But Victor doesn’t seem to know he’s got the easier job. He still looks - not quite sure.

 

And Yuuri gets an idea, too. One that he, by all logic, should never have the guts to do. But it’s late, and his mind is on his feet, not mired in worst-case scenarios. Hesitation is for the daylight.

 

He angles his lashes low and unzips his track jacket. The hair rises on his arms, prickling from the cold, as he slides the fabric off his shoulders and into his hands. He snaps it taut, out to the side. And with a little smirk, he shakes his makeshift cape.

 

He doesn’t have to mouth it. The message is clear. _Come and get it_.

 

Victor lets out a single shocked laugh, silent but clear as anything. And straightening his posture, he finally, after so many nights, smiles.

 

In one fluid motion, they come together.

 

Victor’s still hesitant at first, but not for long, he can’t be if he’s going to keep up with Yuuri. Yuuri twists and spins and glides in the careful cage of Victor’s hands, which don’t quite touch his waist, but move with it, magnetized to him. Yuuri feels stupid at first, playing the matador in his sweaty practice clothes, but he makes himself see the red underskirt of his costume with every twist of his hips.

 

_Look at me_ , he tries to make it say. _Chase me. Catch me. Maybe this time I’ll let you_.

 

And Victor does catch him, palms settling on his ribs, still tapping the rhythm. Ghostly white against his black t-shirt, shimmering like a mirage. But they’re warm, and they’re there.

 

They’re barrelling toward the finale like a train. Victor propels him into the combination spin like they’re in a pas de deux and not a paso doble, and Yuuri straightens with a toss of his head, prepares to throw his lover aside - and falls back into his hold, instead. He’s got tomorrow to dance this for real. He gets to have this time, just for now.

 

Victor’s beaming as he dips him. They both realize, way too late, that they’re completely off balance.

 

Even miles and months away in time, Victor still breaks his fall.

 

Yuuri means to check on him, to make sure he didn’t throw any elbows or other sharp points on his way down, but he can’t sit up - he’s flat on the ice and laughing too hard to move. Though he can’t hear it, he can feel Victor next to him, doing the same. He can feel the ice shaking with it through his back.

 

It’s a long while before Yuuri can sit up again. By then, he’s not in a hurry. He felt the stillness set in the moment it happened. He knows Victor’s not there.

 

_This_ Victor, anyway. His Victor isn’t gone. Not yet.

 

***

 

“I want you to teach me how to move like a woman.”

 

Minako blinks owlishly, her face lined with pillow creases. Her mouth opens, then snaps shut again. And she turns and stumbles back into her apartment.

 

She does, however, leave the door open behind her.

 

***

 

“We welcome next to the ice, representing Japan, Katsuki Yuuri! He was having some trouble envisioning Eros, so he’s said he’ll be imagining his favorite katsudon during his performance…”

 

Yuuri smiles, sweeps into his opening pose, and wonders, again, why he said that out loud with his own traitorous mouth. There is, as before, no good answer.

 

The roar of the crowd fades, and he lets his head tip back. _They want you_ , he reminds himself, to quiet his shaking fingers. _They desire you. You pay them no attention. You’re here for one person_.

 

He catches the movement to his right, and he’s turned to look before he can make the decision to. Victor, in practice clothes, looking right at him. Smiling.

 

But for once, the Victor next to him isn’t his focus. Because the Victor across from him, standing behind the boards, is watching him with that same smile.

 

Yuuri hasn’t been confident. Still isn’t, not quite. But Victor has been confident of the outcome this whole time.

 

Victor knows he’s going to win.

 

The music begins. And so does Yuuri.

 

***

 

“You could have told me.”

 

Victor blinks lazily at Yuuri from over his bowl, and Yuuri swallows hard. “I mean,” he stammers out. “That is—”

 

But Victor’s already laughing. “You’re right,” he says. “It wasn’t quite fair, was it? Just my little revenge. But now we’re even.”

 

Yuuri smiles back, completely lost. Victor’s humor goes over his head sometimes. Maybe it makes more sense in Russian. “Sure.”

 

Victor nods, satisfied, and takes another appreciative bite of his katsudon. They took their bowls just outside the dining room, overlooking the springs and the humid, buzzing Hasetsu night. The cicadas trill. The steam wafts, lazily, from the water. It’s finally summer.

 

“I never knew they could see you back,” Yuuri says. “I mean - I’ve only ever seen it happen to other people. Usually at festivals.”

 

“Me too.” Victor’s smile goes vague, distant. “I’ve always wondered why it doesn’t happen more for people like us. Skaters, or danseurs. I suppose it’s because dancing is our job. If we always had to feel it, we wouldn’t get much done, would we?”

 

He’s quiet, for a moment, and Yuuri has a feeling in the pit of his stomach that he can’t name or shake. He leans forward, under the guise of passing the togarashi to Victor, and with that bit of movement, Victor returns to the present.

 

“But it always made sense, that I saw you,” Victor continues. “The entire time I choreographed Eros, all I could think of was how well you’d skate it.”

 

Yuuri thinks it’s another poorly translated joke, at first. But Victor, seeing his confusion, tilts his head to one side. “You… didn’t notice? The spread eagle into the triple axel from Lohengrin. The final combination spin from Winter. The opening pose is a bit like your exhibition from last year, come to think of it. Eros had you all over it from the start.”

 

“You…” Yuuri stares. He knows Victor’s speaking English. He knows he is, but the words aren’t stringing together. “You saw all those?”

 

Victor looks - stunned, actually. “Yuuri,” he says, slowly. “I always saw you. Not always the way you deserved, maybe. But I always saw you.”

 

“... oh.” Yuuri glances down at his bowl. Long enough that if his eyes are wet when he looks up, it could just be from the steam. “Okay.”

 

Victor spears a piece of pork and lifts it with a flourish, holding it out to Yuuri’s bowl. “I’m looking forward to seeing what else you can do,” he says.

 

And as Yuuri, laughing wetly, clinks their forks together, he lets himself believe, too.

 

***

 

The half-lit fluorescent lights of Ice Castle Hasetsu flicker in a steady rhythm, like the rink itself is breathing. But they’re becoming harder to see now as the early morning sun, bright and low, lifts enough to stream through the windows. The chill of the ice prickles against the night’s humidity. The coolants hum and whirr and whisper.

 

It’s usually Victor’s favorite time to practice by himself. But as with most things these past few months, it would be much nicer with Yuuri here.

 

Yuuri makes his presence felt, though. Victor holds up the crinkled paper and the hasty, late-night scrawl of ideas Victor caught Yuuri writing the other night. Yuuri, of course, had stuck it in his pocket with a sheepish laugh. He’d never meant for Victor to seriously consider any of it. But Victor does want he wants these days. He’s due.

 

The clearest words on the list by far, written in big bold letters: INA BAUER. Victor hums his approval. Yuuri has better taste than he gives himself credit for.

 

Victor takes one lap, building his momentum. Then he closes his eyes, settles his core, and lets himself go. The air stings at his cheeks. His skates quiet from a swish to a breath.

 

Even before he opens his eyes again, he knows he’s no longer alone.

 

Yuuri stands in the middle of the rink dressed in brilliant purple, flushed, breathing hard, standing someplace as brilliant as the sun. Beaming like he’s won everything, or at least something important enough that nothing else matters. Victor doesn’t have long to wonder if Yuuri sees him, because Yuuri saw him first. The light in his eyes changes, his smile breaks into a laugh. And Yuuri reaches for him.

 

Fingers shaking, Victor reaches back.


End file.
